


Half Awake, Half Asleep

by Noclue Idunno (NoclueIdunno)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Caring Harry Potter, Divorced Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Britpicked, Protective Harry Potter, Rentboy Draco Malfoy, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22611268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoclueIdunno/pseuds/Noclue%20Idunno
Summary: Twelve years after the War, on his final trip outside, Draco stumbles upon the last person he wanted to see.YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO POST THIS ON WATTPAD OR ANYWHERE ELSE. I NEVER WRITE ON WATTPAD. DEAR READERS, IF YOU SEE THIS STORY ELSEWHERE, PLEASE, REPORT IT, BECAUSE I WRITE ON AO3 AND AO3 ONLY.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 65
Kudos: 743





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授权翻译】半梦半醒（Half Awake, Half Asleep）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23391778) by [luzaro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luzaro/pseuds/luzaro)



> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and isn't mine. No copyright infringement intended. I gain nothing from this. This is a fanfiction offered freely to HP fans.

==========

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades  
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,  
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep  
In the next valley-glades:  
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?  
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

From "Ode to a Nightingale" - John Keats

==========

Talking to himself has been a habit entrenched far too deep since _last time_. He remembers a few last times just enough to count with the fingers of his left hand. The faded tattoo on his left forearm doesn't make him bite his lips anymore. Could be three last times. Maybe four. Make it four. Because it's one to five. That way it's easier to count, easier to remember. This will be the last time, anyway. Let's name it the fifth trip. It's always good to have a name that can be forgotten. No one would remember a name as dull as "the fifth trip". Not like they would remember "Draco Malfoy".

Draco folds his fingers one by one, feeling the fabric of the bedcloth he's resting on. Soft as sin. The years have worn them down like everything else that wears with time. He swears he could see the yellowing white sheet about to tear where he's scraped with his thumb. _Can't have you peeling like a tangerine after all you've done for me_ , he tells the bedcloth that has been his lone bedmate for twelve long years. _Alright, it's time to look smart,_ he says, _You and I both._ It's an ordeal even to lift his head. He presses his hands down on the mattress, trying to lift the weight of his torso that in turn shoves him back right where he was. _Come on. Help me out here,_ he reaches out to himself.

Another grunt of effort and Draco finally manages to hop off the bed. He has to blink away the dust bathed in the beam of light peeking from between the curtains. _That makes you and I and this place_ , he says. The flaking wallpaper on the creamy ceiling winks at him, waltzing languidly around the dim corners of his vision. A burning, acidic sensation creeps up from his chest to his throat. 'Heartburn'--whoever came up with that word the first time is a right prat, he thinks, it echoes _heartache_. The ceiling pirouettes slowly, in tune with the sharp echoing ring in his ears. He wishes he had a cup of coffee, thick with cream and sweet enough to mask the bitterness. The image drags its pair into his head. Steaming french toast, gilded with hot custard. _Not now, it's not helping,_ he says to no one in particular, and sucks the saliva pooling under his tongue.

A hand on the dresser bears Draco up against the ebb and flow of spinning vision that teases him. When it passes at last, Draco stands in front of the mirror to get a good look at his likeness. His chatter-patter reflection says all the things that announce the dawn of another morning. _Oi, myself, you need a haircut and a breakfast tray_. Only, it doesn't apply to his mornings. Particularly to _this_ morning, at the head of the fifth trip.

Draco pecks his forehead in the mirror. He leaves a damp mark there, but the forehead is soon a faded wall because he steps further away. _Thanks for the jokes,_ Draco says, _goodbye._ Mirror-Draco nods, and kisses his side of the looking glass. Draco stifles a laugh as he sees his reflection making a momentary duckface for the kiss. _It's been an honour_ , the mirror salutes. Draco rotates the clockwork gear on the back of the mirror. When he peers again into the glass, it's no longer a smiling jolly man that meets him. It's Draco Malfoy with limp silver hair covering the eyes and the nape, looking like a starved squib out to beg for knuts. _Hey, Mirror, you look like you're 40._ The Mirror doesn't answer anymore. It is really himself in there, the thirty-year-old ex-Death Eater who has forgotten how to groom. Draco throws a blanket over the mirror.

It's time to look smart, so he folds the bedclothes into neat squares. The topmost threadbare piece that hugged his body for more than a decade. The one under it, upper corner painted with drool stains that have seeped through. Two bedclothes. And a blanket covering the mirror. What am I missing, he thinks. He snatches the idling pillow. _Gotcha._ For the last time he buries his face in it and refuses to part. _Perhaps I'll bring you too. No harm in trying, a pillow stuck in my armpit._

The spray of water from the shower feels like the ceaseless impact of a hundred ice pellets. The water is too cold and too biting on his bone-touching skin. Draco draws a sharp breath when the water hits his body. He closes his eyes and pretends the drizzle is warm when his body cools down enough to be tricked. There had been a time when the cracked tiles of his bathroom were pristine white, mother-of-pearl and all perfumed steams and bubbles. It would be nice if he could soak in the soothing warmth of the bath in Malfoy Manor or Hogwarts. It would be so nice to doze off all surrounded by that warmth.

He dries himself with a towel and kicks it to the side where it mingles with grey clumps of dust. Then he remembers he wasn't supposed to do that, because it's time to look smart, the last and the least thing he could do for this cramped attic that has cradled him in its bosom for the last twelve years. His knee joints squeak and complain when he bends to pick the towel up. He takes it to the sink and lets the water wash away the now-wet, now dark-grey stains of dust. Some spots have permeated in and resist stubbornly. Draco rubs them with his chipped nails and wrings the water out from the towel. He hangs it on the knob of the bathroom door.

Draco always loves opening the dresser. It permits him to drift into the illusion that he still has something to cherish. He has a sterling silver pocket watch. It's pretty under the dim candlelight when the studded aquamarines twinkle like stars. It's the cheapest piece of jewelry he's adamantly refused to sell even when he thought he couldn't possibly get hungrier. The golden ones are all gone. They didn't give him the right price for those. A baker shoved a week-old loaf at him and snatched his mother's gold bracelet. At the time it had seemed a blessing. He had torn into the dried bread and swallowed the mould too. The mould in his stomach did its job and rammed him into the bed for the next week. Even that seemed a blessing because the fever had given him good dreams, and better, sleep without dreams sometimes. Piece by piece, he pawned off everything that had once upon a time defined who he was.

Draco admires the iridescent sparkle of the watch and puts it on the pillow. Another thing to bring with him. He rummages through the odds and ends that have accumulated through his decade-long solitude in and out of this room. A mousy brown hooded cloak to shelter him from people. Dried leaves pressed between a Potions book. Photographs of Father and Mother. Splinters of his snapped wand. That had been his sentence. No magic. His wand-core, a unicorn hair in a locket, its silvery hue lost from time and disuse. Shirts and robes, all too big for him now, some too garish, some too simple for today's tastes.

He finds what he is looking for after digging through the bits and pieces of his life so far. The best robe that he had wrapped in an oilpaper and stashed in the deepest corner of the bottom shelf. The oilpaper rustles from his touch when he unwraps the robe. It smells like unaired wood and mothballs left in too long. But it's okay. He won't wear it after today in any case.

Before he steps out, leaning on the wall every now and then to catch his breath, Draco fishes for the vial he knows he kept in his robe pocket. He downs it in several gulps. It tastes like salted water. He welcomes it. _Could have been worse. Not that bitter._ He opens the pocket watch. _Tick tock--_ every second is precious now that he has only one day left.

Draco takes a hesitant step over the threshold of his rented Knockturn Alley attic. A final trip outside, before he runs out of time. A visit to the park, smell the grass, listen to the wind. Get Fortescue's ice cream if he's willing to sell to someone like him. Because he doesn't need to count his pennies after this day.

==========


	2. Chapter 2

Wooden flooring creaks around Draco's steps on his way down. If he cares enough he sees black dots peeking out from the plank joint. Entire kingdoms and empires exist beneath age-old wood that would snap easily if he stomped hard enough. Ants, lots of them. Once, they tormented Draco's attic, jumping onto what little food he had saved. Without a wand he couldn't keep food fresh. He was lucky if the foodstuffs had simply dried. Sometimes he had to eat them slimy too, the taste sour and burning on his nose like mustard, the ache in his insides and watery, foamy stool to follow. Roaches too. Draco likes ants better because roaches aren't around when ants are. He used to kill ant squadrons and battalions marching on his food and jumping on his toes. He felt powerful. Like the Dark Lord. Because he had done it consciously. Then, the ants became regular visitors, and Draco missed them dearly when only a few daring ants braved his attic, anywhere between five to ten. Sometimes he would leave morsels for the black dots to claim. And then he spoke to them. _How are you today. Are you the one from yesterday? Tell your mates not to climb up my bed. I'm an ant too. Nobody knows I'm here. I come and go. Perhaps one day, someone will step on me, and I'll be a black dot stuck in the soil._

_Bye. I left a biscuit there. Be nice to the next tenant._

Outside, Vela the Hunchback is sweeping dust with a Cleansweep that lost its magic years ago. Draco knows neighbours call her Bumpy _Veela_ just to spite her. The old landlady has an abhorrent character to match her hunched back. But Draco likes her. Better, loves her. Because she's too self-centred to be interested in anyone's business. She doesn't ask questions. Doesn't barge into Draco's attic to check whether he's plotting a Third Wizarding War. But she has an atrocious character. Draco had once missed a month's rent. A peculiar stink invaded his attic all day long and Draco found out Granny Hunchback had painted his door with ghoul shit. It read, WERES MINE 4 GALEONS. Draco never missed a rent after that. He still doesn't get why she'd do that. It was her own damn house, too.

Four galleons a month; a galleon a week. Cheap. Because this is a place for the dregs of humanity. That has been his rent since he chose _Vela's Commons for Gents_ as his roof. A long road. How did he even manage to pay the 576 galleons of his twelve-year stay. 

_Hey, mister, 8 sickles say my lips are worth your time._

_Another coin if you wanna come down my throat._

_Psst. I'll let you do anything for one yellow shine._

_Double for breeding._

He didn't need to try so hard when he was younger. A smirk, teeth on his lips, a sway of his arse, and he would fix that week's rent. They approached him rock hard from the start. But it stopped working after around two years into the job. The mirror never minced words, told him exactly what the problem was. Too skinny. Sunken cheeks. Doesn't look as rosy as when the mirror had first seen him. Looks like a 20-knut hooker.

Some of them had recognised him as Draco Malfoy. Then he got eight or eighteen punches ( _what difference does it make_ ) across his face instead of the sickles he was owed. Some had recognised, but just shrugged. They paid him. Some hadn't known who he was, but still beat him anyway. Some shook their head and left. The proper ones. The ones that had gleaming golden bands on their ring finger. Not always, but usually. Some, some people, some people had let him sleep in their rooms, in their arms, kissed his collarbone, had told him they loved him when they came buried deep in him. Made sure he climaxed, too. He had expected, _hoped_ for something with them, but now he knows exactly who they were. People who pay for a midsummer night's dream of love, staring blankly into their lives, their emptiness contagious. He let them infect him with nothingness. That's what you've got to watch out for. Not a bug or some nasty pox you get sometimes when they come inside you, but that icy gaping nothingness.

One knut, two knuts. A sickle if he could starve himself the whole day. Draco squirreled the money by torturing his tummy with a belt too tight. He set aside what he needed like his cute ants. And when he finally had the required amount, he set aside that urge screaming at him to get a warm robe or eat a proper meal, locked it away and tried to forget that he ate and wore and slept to live, and got thevial. The answer to all his problems. The Finite Incantatem. The Felix Felicis. The Dreamless Sleep. He doesn't care, really, what its name should be. The potioneer told him it would put him to sleep hour by hour. No pain. Just a general sense of numbness.

 _A sleep so sweet, yo_ _ur heart won't beat,_ the bald, spotted wizard told him, cackling.

It's a perfect day. Not too warm, not too cold. It would be a crime not to enjoy this weather and fall asleep in some dank and dark attic. He'll sleep on a bench. Or under a tree. Or lying on his back on the grass, looking beyond that big blue sky. He'll take off the hood and the cloak when he feels the sleep looming. It would be his last trip outside after the innumerable others to make those galleons. Twelve years, and he only ever had three days off. Or four. Make it five. Perhaps he's exaggerating. Because he had weeks off when he was down with food poisoning. But... let's just call it "the fifth trip". _What does it matter even._ The countless others don't count. He'll celebrate with Fortescue's ice cream he's been dying to taste once more.

He's afraid outside Knockturn Alley. He hasn't been to Diagon Alley for the last twelve years. And he's carrying a pillow with him in broad daylight. He knows it's a weird sight, people are bound to look. But he'll risk it. It's the last day.

Someone not Florean is the new owner. But he still has the old sign with the name _Florean Fortescue_ on. Draco is sorry Florean is dead.

There aren't many people around. It's a truly perfect day. Maybe not.

"Pardon me, sir," Draco says. "Can I have..."

Three vertical lines between the owner's brows tell Draco he's not welcome. Perhaps that man knows he's Draco Malfoy. Perhaps he's Florean's brother. Or cousin. Or nephew. Or someone who just bought the parlour out. This was a big mistake. He shouldn't have come to an ice cream parlour whose last owner was murdered by the Dark Lord.

"Hmm, I didn't know Dementors liked ice cream," Not-Florean grins, cocking his head to see under Draco's hood. Draco lowers his head. "Since when have Dementors carried old pillows?"

"They absolutely love ice cream, especially the Strawberry and Double Chocolate Chip," says Draco. He fervently wishes the joke to do its magic. "And... I want to use my pillow in the park."

"Ha! You're off your rocker there." Despite his words, Not-Florean grins widely and flops a huge scoop on top of everything. "An extra Moonfruit Menace. On the house."

"Thank you," Draco replies. He must look like an idiot, wrapped in hood and cloak, a towering ice cream cone in one hand, a yellowing pillow in the other.

Somehow, Draco succeeds carrying the ice cream without dropping it to that nice spot under the tree. There's an overgrown bush on the right, shielding him. The tree's branches hang low to form an umbrella of leaves. He had expected people to stare at him. It turns out, no one pays him too much attention. The park is sparsely filled, and people are busy talking to their companions or throwing frisbees for their crups. Some look his direction, but don't scrutinise. Their gaze mostly stops at his hood briefly before moving on to the huge ice cream. Then they ignore the pillow he's put on the grass.

Yes. It is a perfect day after all. He forgot people don't really care about everything as much as they care about everything.

Draco is looking forward to his Strawberry and Double Chocolate Chip after he finishes the topmost Moonfruit. When he's about to lick the pink ball of divine taste, he feels a thicker shadow shading him. An added shade that merges with the shadow of the tree.

Draco looks up and finds two kids, hand-in-hand, ogling his ice cream. The shorter one is sucking a finger. The taller one has a toy wand in his other hand. Draco used to have one of those when he was an insufferable little mischief himself. Enchanted to cast a _Wingardium Leviosa_ on its own on sweets and other non-lethal, child-friendly, prank-worthy objects. Yes. Draco knows all about toy wands. But what he doesn't know is that the brat would Levitate his ice cream from the cone.

"Yay!" The midget monstrosity whoops.

"Ice cream," says the smaller brat, likely his younger brother.

"Hey! Gimme that," Draco tries to take the toy wand. He wants to drop the ice cream safely back to the cone. But much to his horror, the ice cream is already floating to the taller kid's mouth. A wet splat, a slurping sound, and gulps--his ice cream is now corrupted. "You too," the kid says to the black-haired midget, who also _splats, slurps, gulps._ Their faces are messy with Draco's ice cream. Pink mustache around their lips. Pink dripping beards. "Just wanted one bite," the taller kid says. "Dad doesn't let us." He aims the toy wand to return the ice cream. Unfortunately, however, he misses his aim and drops everything on Draco's lap.

They wring their hands, and look at Draco helplessly.

 _What does it matter_ if he has a sticky lap. It's okay. It's still edible. He's had far worse. Draco shovels the ice cream with his hand and puts it back on the rim of the cone. He licks the melting cream off his palm.

"You can't eat what you drop," The taller kid says.

"I can," Draco replies. "Shoo, you pixie spawns."

"You're mean," says his quiet brother.

"I am known for that," Draco says haughtily. When was the last time he was allowed to speak in this tone, he asks himself. "Now stop pestering me and bugger off. I don't want to deal with your mother." Draco sneers, and adds, "If you have any."

"You're real mean, and Mum's not here," one of them says, Draco doesn't really care who.

"Fine. Then your plebeian daddy dear who's too lousy to afford a bloody ice cream cone. Get out of my sight."

The taller kid yells hotly, "Don't call my dad lousy!", while the shorter one asks, "What's plebeian?".

"Oh? Aren't you the inquisitive one," Draco raises an eyebrow at the younger kid. "Sometimes it's better to be dumb like your brother here. Life is easier that way. Not that you'd get any of this in that runty head of yours."

"I'm not dumb!" The taller kid snatches Draco's pillow and throws it. It doesn't fall far. The shorter one sucks his thumb, staring at Draco quietly.

Draco sighs and gets up to fetch his pillow. "Why don't you just go and leave me alone," he says. So much for a perfect day. Well, _what does it matter._ It's not as if he's had one for the past twelve years. Maybe things don't change. It's okay. He's beginning to get sleepy. He'll just get that pillow and choose another spot to rest.

As Draco picks the pillow from where it fell, he sees a man shouting, running toward them. "James! Albus!"

The names cause Draco's head to whip around so quickly his neck clicks. The man kneels, hugging his sons. Draco takes in the scene unfolding before him with horror etched on his face. _James. Albus._ No. No, he doesn't want the end to be like this. Not him. Not like this. He's approaching Draco now. _Why wouldn't you all just leave me alone._ Please don't let it be...

"...Malfoy?"

==========


	3. Chapter 3

"What were you doing to my kids," Potter's voice is calm, but his eyes are intensely set. He's none of the Potter Draco remembers. The years wore him out like they did Draco's blanket. Potter has almost invisible wrinkles around his eyes now. His stubble is thicker. But where he was Draco's rival before, now he radiates an aura of such fundamental difference that Draco isn't sure they're acquainted at all. Rivals need more similarity than difference, and Draco knows he isn't Potter's rival in all kinds of meaning. Now Draco is terrified, not of Potter's powerful magic and physique, but of the unfamiliarity. The same reason he takes several deep breaths every time he ventures the streets for a client. Strange, foreign, unfamiliar client like Pandora's box. At the bottom of the box isn't hope, but despair. And this time it's a Potter-shaped despair.

"Toyour kids?" says Draco in a sing-song voice, stressing each syllable. "Ah. And here I was thinking this unfortunate pair was hungry Knockturn urchins. Mrs Potter's - _ahem-_ Burrowy genes must have given your spawns their thieving paws."

Draco can feel Potter's eyes raking him top to bottom. He's being dismembered. They do that to him, the wizards. They scan him with their eyes, from the tip of his hair to his patched-up boots, cut him apart and examine him to decide on which name they're going to use. Potter's taking in what he looks like. Potter is processing the information. And whatever word comes out from Potter's mouth, Draco will try not to be intimidated.

"Keep talking about my sons and I'll _shame_ you," Potter's eyes flash threateningly. Draco notices Potter doesn't cuss at him. His children's presence stops him, Draco thinks.

Draco bursts out laughing. He isn't laughing, no, not at all, but he needs to show Potter his laugh. He's going to have the last laugh on Potter. Literally. The poison he had taken before he left is starting to take effect, he can feel it. The impending inevitable grants Draco a courage greater than anything he's ever felt. Because Potter can do nothing to him. No one can, not anymore. Draco is both terrified and unafraid. 

"You forgot to defend your dear Weaslette's honour, Potty. I'm sure I didn't hear anything about your wifethere. Trouble in paradise?" Draco sneers.

When Potter grits his teeth, Draco feels so much better already. Magic is fair, perhaps. It sent Potter to compensate for his lost treat.

Potter's eyes lock onto the ice cream stain on Draco's pelvis, then to the ice cream around his sons' mouths. Potter looks at the muddy pillow. Potter looks at his limp hair, a face he knows is skin and bones. It was a good choice to wear his best robes. Draco doesn't want his own eyes darting around to avoid Potter's, so he takes out the pocket watch and checks the time. His numb thumb relieves him more than the fact that time is actually passing, not stopped around them. His extremes are becoming stiff.

"James?" Potter calls, not taking his eyes away from Draco, "Did he give you the ice cream?"

Draco scoffs silently. Potter thinks he's put something in the ice cream _._ No, Potter, the only poison victim in this park today is me. Or you, with your assumptions. But Draco doesn't voice it. He lets Potter dismember him with his eyes.

"James," Potter says again, "Explain, young man."

"We only had one taste," James says petulantly.

Potter crosses his arms and whispers a wandless spell, _Ostendo Toxicum._ Two balls of blue light float above their heads. When the light turns green, Potter nods in evident relief and waves the lights away. 

"You're in a lot of trouble when we get home. And no toy wands. Not even the _Lumos_ wand."

"But, Dad--"

"James." That single name spoke volumes, so James closes his mouth. "You too, Albus," Potter says. "Go over there and play with the McLaggen kids. Daddy will come get you soon."

When the children reach another family picnicking in the corner of the park, Potter turns to Draco. "We're thirty and you're still a little shit, Malfoy."

Draco sneers. "Only around you," he winks. "I might get actual sores from talking to you, Potter. Scram." He returns to his spot under the tree. Draco isn't surprised that Potter's footsteps follow him. Potter has always been a sad stalker.

The excitement takes its toll on Draco's body and he feels his strength sapping. He sits carefully between the roots where it's comfortable and hugs his dirty pillow. He sighs contentedly, leaning on the tree. Everything is perfect again, except a certain Potter in his vision. Draco closes his eyes to deal with the nuisance. But closing his eyes isn't enough, because he can't make himself deaf. He opens his eyes again and tries to stare past Potter.

"What are you doing here," Potter says.

Draco ignores him. It's a question Potter can very well answer himself, and answers are irrelevant now. Draco doesn't want to spend his precious little time rewarding Potter's curiosity.

"Where were you," Potter says. Three demanding words, like he's locked Draco up for an interrogation.

Draco tries not to throw a handful of soil to Potter's face. Instead, he concentrates on the numb sensation that has spread to his knees.

"Why would you just... you were _gone_ ," Potter says. "A lot of Aurors wasted time trying to locate you."

Draco throws a handful of soil to Potter's face. It only reaches Potter's chest because he can't muster the necessary strength. Potter brushes the dirt off his front.

"And next is when, who, and which, I'd wager. You're wasting your breath." The stain on his pillow resembles a map. Draco spits on the ground and dips his finger into the wet soil. He draws more lands on his pillow with the brown-black pigment. 

Potter is watching him. "Fine. How--"

"You're still here. Looking for fun?" Draco's tone is sweet and suggestive, but his lips are twisted in sarcasm. "Eight sickles to get me on my knees. A galleon to the back door. Take it or leave it." Draco can't feel his fingers anymore and he's grateful for it.

Potter blanches, but it goes away in a blink. But Draco doesn't miss a thing. He's learnt far too much. He sees far too much. He reads faces now like the Dark Lord had read people's minds. He's learnt to protect himself before the blows start. Learn to watch out for the slightest crease of the eyebrow. Learn to turn back if a client doesn't reveal what he wants. Learn to see if he's in for a night of pain. Learn to determine whether he's going to be paid for the pain. Learn whether clients would come inside without paying extra from the way their rhythm breaks. Learn if a client recognises him. And Potter wears his thoughts on his sleeve. Reading Potter's face, Draco hopes he's disgusted Potter enough to make him leave.

Potter's answer isn't what he expects.

"That's terribly underpriced," Potter says conversationally.

"I am scandalised!" mocks Draco. He doesn't like Potter pulling that tone on him, as if they're having tea together. "The Saviour knows the fares of the flesh market! What would Mrs Potter say?"

"Bringing johns in for illegal sex purchase is an Auroring job D," Potter says. And shrugs. Draco hates the confident arch Potter makes with his shoulders.

"Then go do your job, Auror." There is a stab of sorrow in Draco's heart. There were times when he wanted, no, prayed for Aurors to come save him from one of those clients--Wizards who believed they could do anything to him just because he had told them, _you can do anything_. There were no Aurors then. Knockturn is a small universe itself, devoid of law. Roads stretch and intertwine like spider webs. Buildings are built on top of existing layers. A murder in Knockturn only attracts one or two Aurors at best, or none at all. He remembers seeing a body rotting in decomposing waste. He remembers running to his attic staying up all through the night, counting ants.

"I'm not an Auror anymore, Malfoy," says Potter. "But I can tell you're not bluffing. That's what you've been actually doing all these years, selling yourself. Is that what you're here for? Catwalk?"

Draco hopes it's not his lower lip that's trembling now.

"What exactly is your problem, Potter," he says. "Scared your runts would catch something from me? I'm not a pedophile. Stay out of my business if you're not with the Ministry."

A pebble jumps from nowhere and hits Draco's head. Draco rubs his forehead and glares at Potter defiantly.

"Last warning, Malfoy. Leave my sons out of this. Answer the question. Why are you here, what's your purpose. I don't think for a second you're here for an afternoon nap after 12 years hooking in Knockturn."

It's not the first time Draco is insulted for being a prostitute. Coming from Potter, however, makes it lethal in an altogether different way. Draco saw Potter's kids, plump and red like lovely pomegranates. Draco sees Potter's dragonskin loafers. His perfect, rooted life. Potter's attractive face. Well-built body. And he knows what he'd look like in Potter's eyes. Half-digested pulp of flesh, bone protruding near the cheeks, fingers bony, alone and dirty. He wouldn't give a damn, but he can't ignore that it's Potter. The last person he wanted to see him like this.

So Draco offers up another prayer to a nonexistent higher power. _If it's all the same, let me sleep faster._

It could have been a higher power. It could have been his magical core. It could have been his quickening heart. It could have been his dilated blood vessels. It could have been the vibration of his shaking body, but his wish does the trick and numbness shoots from his hands to his chest. From his knees now to his stomach. And he's getting very sleepy; his shame and anger abate and he feels almost pleasant again.

"A nap... funny you'd mention that," Draco says, smirking at Potter who appears confused by his sudden change of demeanour. It's the last time he'll see this hateful bane of his life. Might as well be gracious about it all. A final poise to return to who he had been once. "I'm here for a nap."

His clutch loosens and the pillow sags lower like a tired donkey after a two-hundred-mile journey. A drop of nothing rolls down his face.

And then he sleeps.

==========

At first, he thinks it's the pebble he Charmed. But he controlled it, for sure. This shouldn't make his heart jump like it's going to crawl out of his throat. Did he crack Malfoy's skull? Did he kill him? Did the magic implode his brains? Best explanation, Harry shudders, because he suddenly went from angry to serene. Like a person after a concussion.

No one's in immediate vicinity, there's no magic involved, and no one falls asleep like that in the middle of conversation. That pebble wasn't supposed to do that. He's absolutely sure. More than absolutely sure.

"Fuck," Harry says, "Fuck."

He puts a finger under Malfoy's nose and feels a weak breath. Weak, too weak, but there's a breath. Good.

He slides a hand under Malfoy's jaw. Malfoy's pulse is extremely slow.

Harry casts a spell to visualise Malfoy's vitals. His heartbeat's getting slower. Air intake dropping.

"Anapneo,"No reaction. "Reparifors," No improvement. "Finite Incantatem," Nothing.

Something occurs to him and he casts an Ostendo Toxicum. The blue light on Malfoy's head turns red and blinks, screeching madly. Poisoned. Not ice cream, the spell didn't do that for his sons. Harry's reassured but at the same time, on edge. He needs a Healer.

The McLaggens and a few other families come running to him when they see him crouched over an unconscious man.

"Merlin, Harry," says Cormac. "Is that _Draco Malfoy_?" Some people let out sounds of surprise. Most simply keep on watching, not knowing what to do.

"Daddy?" says Albus, "Ice-cream man's sleeping."

"He's not sleeping, stupid," James says. Harry has no time to correct his language.

"You, Miss," Harry randomly points at a woman who's still holding a sandwich in her hands. "Call a Healer for me, please."

"What--me?" The woman looks around. "I... how do I--"

"Do it now!" Harry roars. She drops her sandwich in surprise.

"I'll call the Healer," says Cormac's wife instead. She jabs the air with three successive, quick motions. Two Mediwizards appear with the crack of Apparition.

"Make way," a burly Mediwizard pushes people aside rudely. People complain with _Oh!_ s and _Oi!_ s.

"He's poisoned. None of the emergency spells work. He's not Cursed," Harry says. "He's, uh, that bump on his forehead isn't..."

A Mediwitch takes one look at the bump and makes a face at Harry. She knows it's recent. "We'll take it from here, Mr Potter," she says, looking at him disapprovingly. "But you need to come with us for the paperworks." She casts a series of spells on Malfoy, and Levitates him.

"Yeah," replies Harry. Albus runs to Harry and holds on to his index finger.

"It might not be the best place for children, the Emergency Wards," the burly wizard says kindly, contrary to his Giant-like manners earlier.

"I know. I'll take them to the Lounge first. Thanks."

The Mediwitch nods. "We'll be off then. It's a war against time with poisoning." She whips out a Portambulance. The hospital-exclusive Portkey sucks them smoothly and disappears itself.

"Fuck!" Harry kicks Malfoy's pillow. It hits the tree trunk and falls. The small crowd is still watching, flabbergasted at "poisoning" and Harry's outburst. He picks the bloody pebble and throws it. Albus sniffles, looking at his father raging.

"Oh, Albus. C'mere," Harry says, instantly regretting his reaction. "Don't cry, buddy. It's okay." Looking around with Albus in his arms, Harry finds the McLaggens and their children. "Thanks, Veronica," he says to Cormac's wife before nodding to her husband as well. The crowd begins to disperse.

Harry beckons at James who comes rushing, almost tripping on the clumps of grass. He Side-Alongs his two children to the Burrow.

==========

The door-bell's changed since his last time here. Now a bronze dwarf is holding a bell, buzzing in a robotic voice, "Welcome to the Burrow". A jolt of blue spark warns Harry against ringing the bell at all. Electricity. Must be Arthur's latest attempt at creating Muggle-Wizarding devices.

Harry hasn't received any news on Weasley funeral yet, so it's likely to be safe. As safe as it can be as long as he makes it safe. He picks a branch and rings the bell with it.

There's no sound from within.

Harry sighs and presses his reluctant finger on the bell. Arthur's pet project doesn't murder him with electrocution. Harry only feels a light tingle on the tip of his finger. The bronze dwarf then buzzes and rattles, "Family identified."

Family identified. A lot of memories clash in his mind. It's been years since he had last seen Ron. _You're not family anymore,_ Ron had whispered quietly over a pint the night Harry and Ginny finally submitted the divorce paper, two signatures and two wand seals on. Harry had parted on good terms with Ginny, they still meet for dinner once in a while to discuss the kids, and the rest of the Weasleys relented. Molly had been crying everyday, trying to turn the decision, making everyone's life miserable. It was Ginny who at long last put an end to the waterfall from her eyes with "Mum, enough is enough. The kids didn't want to come because Grandma's always crying." Gradually, Molly stopped inquiring after Ginny and Harry to Harry and Ginny.

Hermione had made sure she didn't want to be involved. "It's not my marriage," she said, "and you and Ginny are still my friends." But it had been a shock for her husband. "You know what, Harry," Hermione had smiled bitterly, "I thought he'd be the first to come around. Turns out he takes longer than Arthur. Down to me, still figuring Ronald out."

Molly had once prepared two successive, identical Christmas dinners because Ron didn't want to stay in the same room with Harry. Harry never returned to the Burrow after that. He asked the others to visit him instead. Ginny every other week to pick up the kids. Molly and Arthur for the seasons. Hermione whenever she feels like it. It'd be a lie to say he didn't wait for Ron. But time passed, and now he gives credit to _far from the eyes, far from the heart_. 

It was a good divorce, all in all. If such phrase is a thing.

They couldn't make it work. They both knew that sparks dwindle after a year or two, and marriage doesn't last on spark. But "sparks out" couldn't possibly express their tumble downhill. Ginny realised too late that she can't stand her mother's life, feeding the children and cooking for the husband, trimming loose threads and ironing sleeves. A job outside wasn't enough, too. She began to sleep out. One night became two nights, and more. Harry knew it was over when he didn't stop her, when her late-night ventures failed to produce the smallest anger in him. And when he saw the kids eating Stasis-preserved macaroni and cheese for the third day straight, he returned to the Ministry whence he had just come home and resigned. There was a thick envelope of divorce package in his hands when he came home the second time that evening.

He took the joke from Hermione. "Harry, who knew you'd be the one to follow Molly's profession out of us all?"

He told Hermione he's not raising seven children. And that he can't cook six dishes for lunch. And that he doesn't maintain a herb garden and a coop. And that he sometimes gets Chinese take away for the kids. And that he has a life outside, too. Not always, but yeah. He met this bloke the other day. 

Sure, after what, two years of blue balls? Let's face it. You're a stay-at-home dad, Harry.

What happened to, uh... Deconstructing the Domestic Space and Respecting Home-managing Spouses, Mione?

That had shut Hermione up.

He doesn't blame Ginny, not really, no. What they had was much, much lower below "sparks out". It wasn't something so simple to play tag. They had dried until the earth beneath their feet scorched and cracked. Everything was dry. Ginny's inside had been dry. Harry's cock had been dry. Their kiss was far from wet. Even their eyes were dry. Ginny's depression did not draw Harry's consolation. Harry's fatigue did not earn Ginny's sympathy. They didn't shed tears for one another. It wasn't much of a life at all. His sons had been the colours filling out those greyscale days.

Only after the divorce had Harry and Ginny truly smiled at each other, really acknowledging the other's presence in their lives, perhaps for the first time since their marriage collapsed.

Yes. It was a good divorce.

And he's still family here. Family identified.

A large figure waddles out of the Burrow's warped front door. Their divorce had been good for them, but not for Molly, like all things in life that take one to give one. Molly's belief in the family was--is--religious. Her daughter and her ward's divorce was a kingdom-coming apocalypse for her. It was something to be coped. So she coped with eating. Eating more, eating leftovers, eating pudding and eating meat scraps stuck to the bone, eating bread on top of the beans on top of the corns, eating dessert and another serving and draining digestif, two glasses of it. She ate like a person starved. She ate to fill the great cavity of dissatisfaction that belched blaring, announcing to her head and her head only that something's wrong with dear Ginny and darling Harry's lives. She ate because she no longer asked them about the other.

"My puppies!" Molly says. James and Albus run to her, clutching the hems of Molly's robes. Harry notices Albus reaching up a hand. Sly little devil, Harry thinks fondly. Albus knows Molly always has treats and silver sickles at the ready for her legionnaire of grandchildren. "My kitten pies!" 

Harry can't resist the smile invading his lips. Molly has the strangest combination of endearments.

"Oh, Harry," she breathes heavily from exertion. "So you decided to visit at last." She dabs her eyes with her sleeve, sniffling.

"Molly, we just met last month," Harry says.

"Yes, but not here, not here at home," replies Molly. Home. Harry's heart swells as he realises Molly's used the word to include him into the fold. "I'm so glad you've come, Harry dear. You must stay for dinner. Or sleep over. Oh! Arthur's in for a surprise with my babies when he's home!"

"Actually," Harry begins. The onset of Harry's refusal clouds Molly's face already. Harry clears his throat and says again, "Actually, I'm supposed to be going. There was an emergency and I've got to be at the hospital for the forms. I came to see if you could take the kids tonight. It's fine if you can't. There's a kid's lounge over at St. Mungo's."

"Where did that even come from now, Harry?" Molly straightens the full extent of her bulimic expanse. "I'll have dirt in my eyes any day before I let my babies sleep in a hospital lounge! The germs and the cries... it's a horrible place," she shudders. "Don't you worry now, my dear. They're in good hands. Oh, and George is dropping by for dinner. Be back if you can? I'll put up a roast and see if I can manage that treacle tart." Harry gulps, imagining Molly's dinner before him. James and Albus hurray and disappear into the house, not waiting to say goodbye to their father. Harry feels a bit miffed.

"What happened, by the way?" Molly says. "I've been wanting to tell you, you look dreadful. Are you sure you're not under the weather?"

Harry struggles whether he should mention Malfoy. He won't keep secrets, but decides not to tell Molly about the ice-cream to prevent a needless fuss.

"I found Draco Malfoy in the park." Death Eaters are a sore subject in the Burrow. Harry searches for Molly's reaction and finds himself strangely relaxing when there's no immediate storm. "I think... fuck, I think he tried to kill himself. We were talking, and I didn't know he already took poison. He was waiting to die there all along. I... I thought he was up to something, and there were children in the park, so I questioned him. He told me off, but I didn't let him go. He didn't take it well."

"Poor boy," Molly says, voice shaking with emotion. Harry's head shoots up, brow raised in disbelief for Molly's sympathy to Malfoy.

Molly's lip twitches. "I used to blame them all for Fred."

"I know," Harry says. "And I don't think you're wrong."

"Well, if that was meant to make me feel better, it didn't work because I was wrong. I shouldn't have blamed them all, not all of them. You'd know, you have your own sons."

Harry pauses for a moment. He should not even dare to think about it, but he imagines. What if he lost James? Or Albus? He'd go mad. Plain mad with revenge. Or maybe he'll shut himself up somewhere, and just... stop living. He can't imagine a life without his sons.

And then he imagines, what if Malfoy was his son.

And just like that, he sees Molly's point. But he doesn't agree. He'd blame them all. He'd blame Malfoy if a Death Eater murdered his sons. He'd blame Malfoy's bloody stupid choice to become a Death Eater. He'd blame Malfoy and all of them for everything.

"I don't agree. But I know what you're feeling," Harry says. "Really must be going now." He kisses Molly's cheek.

"Be back for dinner, George will be here too," Molly says again.

"I'll let you know," Harry replies.

He turns on his heels and Apparates to St. Mungo's. Once upon a time, Malfoy had been an annoying brat with too much hair gel. He had a father who wanted him to become a Death Eater. He had a Demon incarnate in his house. And then Malfoy disappeared. He reappeared with an ice-cream and a pillow that he bought with his body. He attempted suicide with poison.

While the environs of the Burrow rotate around him in the blur of Apparation, it occurs to Harry perhaps Malfoy didn't have much of a choice. This was his first real choice in a long time.

==========


	4. Chapter 4

==========

It was a wise decision not to bring his sons to the Emergency section. Most are feverish patients exaggerating their symptoms, waiting for their turn. But there are some real emergencies. They rushed in a man screaming as if he were chased by a stampede. His lower body is Transfigured into a goat's hinds, and blood bubbles around his waist where the human and the animal are spliced. Animagus Transfiguration gone wrong. Another girl floats in with Mediwizards, an empty hole and Stasis spell where her right eye once was. "We're renewing the Stasis every minute," a tired senior Healer tells her trainee, "and putting a Bubble-Head Charm. Mild Scourgify--just enough to clean the wound. We don't want to remove everything--careful with the damaged tissue."

Harry turns at the corner to the Emergency Section's registration front. The Mediwitch does not greet him, and is scribbling furiously on a parchment. She looks up when Harry clears his throat. Employees here are unhappy as always, Harry thinks, when the Mediwitch smiles tiredly and says, "How may I help you". Her eyes move to Harry's lightning scar, but her own exhaustion seems to interest her more.

"I'm here for Draco Malfoy," Harry says.

The witch replies immediately. Harry sends an unperformed applause to the Mediwitch's impassive expression at Malfoy's name. Harry thinks, either the memories of the War have dulled enough, or her professionalism is guiding her. "Ah yes, the poisoning," the witch says, producing several forms--blue, green, and yellow. "Please sign here... here... and here."

Harry takes the cheap quill the witch hands him. The form begins to fill magically, detailing his personal information Harry really doesn't want anyone to peruse, he's clueless why hospitals always have to pry, he isn't the patient here. The magic leaves only the signature boxes blank. Sighing in defeat, Harry signs the forms.

"Thank you. Everything seems to be in order."

"Thanks. Good day," Harry says, turning.

The Mediwitch stops him. "Mr Potter, Healer Lovegood left a message. She wants to see you as soon as possible. Third floor, Private Ward 318--that's Mr Malfoy's room."

Harry furrows his eyebrows. "So Malfoy made it... I'm not done here?"

The Mediwitch purses her lips and Harry realises he's worn out his welcome. "You will have to inquire directly, Mr Potter." Her eyes fall back to her paperwork while her hand lifts her half-full cup of lukewarm coffee. She fails to stifle a huge yawn.

The yawn convinces him he's not going to get an explanation.

Private Ward.

They don't put homeless patients in private wards. Not unless someone's paying for it, or there's more to this.

 _So there's more to this,_ Harry thinks, worrying his lips and rubbing his thumb in his jeans pocket. He feels a familiar ache coursing from his neck to his left eye, the migraine that never stops fucking his life up whenever he's under stress. Harry presses a hand to his left temple. This is becoming a literal headache.

==========

When he sees Malfoy again, he calls his name. Because his eyes are open--half-open, half-closed, half-lidded--dull mercury staring into nothing, reflecting nothing, except for the occasional twinkle from the refraction of Healing charms shooting from the tips of one Healer Luna Lovegood.

"Malfoy," Harry calls him. Reflexively. Almost reflexively. Or perhaps he's not calling him. Just saying the word, just for the sake of it. He doesn't wait for a reply. He knows Malfoy can't respond. Unmoving in his bed like this, Malfoy almost looks like a body after a Killing Curse.

"I was about to send you a Patronus," says Luna in her ever-slow, ever-dreamy voice without looking his way. "But you saved me the trouble. Do you mind opening the window? There's an alarming number of Wrackspurts floating out of Draco's ears, Harry. We should let them out."

"Hello to you too, Luna," says Harry. "Pretty sure you can't see Wrackspurts without Spectrespecs."

"When in doubt, suspect Wrackspurts."

"What happened to Kacky Snorgles," demands Harry.

Luna tuts and correct him. "Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, Harry."

"That's the one," Harry says. Some things never change. The name paints a smile on his lips.

"Sometimes, a dream remains a dream. Snorkacks were Dad's dreams."

Perhaps some things change, then. "Why am I here, Luna?"

Luna turns from Malfoy to face him. Silver eyes, pale complexion, blond. It occurs to Harry she has Malfoy's colours. "Why are you here, Harry?"

"You wanted me here," replies Harry. Luna is now drawing something on the air. It grows into a transparent, blue shell of light that envelops Malfoy's bed before disappearing.

"I did, and I do. But you chose to come here."

"Well, the Mediwitch--"

"You came here for Draco," Luna says in that sleepy, dragging voice. "I was told, it was you that found Draco. You needed a little push to come. I pushed you."

"Luna, enough with the riddles. I have kids waiting for me. Tell me why I'm here," says Harry.

Luna stares blankly at Harry. When Harry waves his hand in front of her face, Luna comes to herself. "Oh! Sorry about that. You have to keep Draco awake."

A look at Malfoy's bed assures Harry he's not going to have any luck in that. "I don't think a bucket full of ice water could wake him up. And I don't think it's coming across to me. You're the Healer here."

Luna ignores Harry and runs a vital on Malfoy. "Still stable. His poison-- it's called the _Dreaming End_. Pretty name, isn't it," says Luna.

"No, not really," Harry replies. He would never get how Luna's mind works. "It's poison. Whatever name it has won't sound pretty to me."

Luna cocks her head, as if Harry's words puzzled her. "It's a pretty name, and I guess Draco wanted a pretty dream and a pretty end."

"It's all just damn fucking morbid, Luna."

"Maybe, for you," says Luna. "Draco's heart will gradually stop if he falls asleep. Clock's ticking. I want to administer the antidote. You."

Harry laughs stupidly. "That makes no sense. You must be joking."

Luna cocks her head again.

Harry stops laughing. "Come on."

Luna scrapes something off her nails and blows it away along with Harry's disbelief.

"Right now my spell's playing a little game with Draco's brains to neutralise the poison. If he thinks he's dreaming while he's awake, he won't fall asleep. You have to persuade him that he is really dreaming. Because the poison will fight to put him back to sleep."

"That's... complicated. Dreaming while awake, persuade him he's dreaming... So, keep him awake by persuading him he's dreaming. Fine. If there's no time, I'll try, but... why me?"

"Normally it's family members or friends. Intimate people who can comfort him."

"I'm not--" _intimate_ , Harry wants to say. And then Luna's voice echoes in his head. _Normally it's family members or friends_. Malfoy doesn't have any. Malfoy is truly alone.

Harry changes what he says. "Do you know how it's done?"

"There have been successful treatments in the past, but what I saw in person was a failure. I was a registrar under another Healer. We could reach the patient's cousin, but she couldn't persuade him. Maybe he didn't want to be persuaded. Or maybe we got the wrong person. In the end he... fell asleep. If you've ever dreamed, you know that everything's possible in a dream. Everything's also impossible. It's a confusing blend of shoulda-woulda-couldas and shall-will-cans, and, the cousin couldn't navigate through them all."

"Don't know what I'm getting into. Can only try," says Harry.

"Yes," is Luna's short reply.

Harry gives her a firm nod. "Right then."

"I'll wake him and leave the room. Are you prepared?" says Luna, her wand at the ready.

"Wait!"

"Yes, Harry?"

"How long is it gonna...?"

"As long as it takes," Luna says. "Past records show a maximum of three nights. I get the feeling it's always three about these things. Don't you, Harry?"

"Three nights in a room with a half-dreaming Malfoy. Uh, would you please tell Molly and my sons I'm not making it to dinner... dinners?"

"I'll see to it." replies Luna. She raises her wand, about to flick it at Malfoy.

"Wait!"

"Yes, Harry?"

"I... seem to recall you talking about the poison fighting back."

"Yes, Harry."

Harry grits his teeth. "Well, spill it!"

"Oh, the poison will just make him re-experience the worst moments of his life. Like a nightmare. So that he'll want to shut it all down."

"And you left all that out?"

Luna cocks her head for the umpteenth time, and Harry wants to hex her. "It's all okay, Harry. This time he has you with him. Really, we can't delay. You have water and some snacks back there. Good luck."

"Luna, wait!"

Luna doesn't wait and flicks her wand determinedly at Malfoy. She kisses Harry's cheek once, with a _You're his antidote_ , and leaves the room, clicking the door shut quietly.

==========

Facing the door, Harry hears the rustling sound of blankets from the corner where Malfoy's bed is.

He also hears a chuckle.

A chuckle that is meant to be seductive. To his ears it's forced and dry. Not so much seductive as out-of-tune. Like an unstrung fiddle forced to perform itself on the streets.

 _Hey, mister,_ Malfoy says. With that raspy chuckle.

 _Eight sickles say my lips are worth your time_.

==========


	5. Chapter 5

==========

"Hey, mister," Malfoy says, "Eight sickles say my lips are worth your time."

Harry is in a pressing need for composure, so he closes his eyes and allows himself to breathe. Even breaths. Deep breaths.

More rustling fabrics, and he hears the sound of flesh meeting floor--Malfoy's bare feet sneaking toward him.

The arms sliding slyly around his waist seem to know just the right amount of pressure to apply.

Harry feels Malfoy's head resting on his back. Malfoy is tiny pressed up against him. And because this is Malfoy, because this is Draco Malfoy--the one person he had never pictured on a canvas such as this--he's growing increasingly aware of the proximity. He feels Malfoy rubbing his cheek on his back. The touch is intimate and deliberate like a lover's. He feels Malfoy's long, thin fingers slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt.

"I'll be so good," Malfoy whispers. "Care for more than a blowjob? Explore a little? I can take anything. Absolutely anything. Two galleons--I'll even let you come inside, I'll take it all."

 _The poison will make him reexperience the worst moments of his life,_ Harry remembers.

Malfoy doesn't let his emotions show. Only paper-white, napkin-thin veneer of pleasantness that very often feels thick for those equally thick-skinned. Thanks be to his genes that Harry isn't that thick. Malfoy doesn't seem to realise that it's Harry Potter, his school nemesis and parkside harasser he's offering himself to. So this was Malfoy's nightmare, Harry understands, a nightmare in which he has to sell himself daily to anyone who'd say yes. Harry isn't ready to turn and face Malfoy like this. Because,

Because, what could he possibly do for someone whose everyday is a nightmare?

If the day is nightmare, how do you know you're awake?

Harry covers Malfoy's hands with his when he hears his jeans unzipping this time. He locks his fingers slowly, very slowly with Malfoy's, and takes Malfoy's hands away from his zipper. Because right now in Malfoy's dreamscape-cum-reality, or vice versa, whichever it is for Malfoy, he is simply one out of, perhaps, a thousand others who had purchased Malfoy's bum and bones and blood for a ten-minute sport that involves sweat and saliva and semen.

And the whole point of this "treatment", in Luna's words, is for him to be someone different. Someone not so nightmarish.

Someone who can convince Malfoy to keep dreaming.

Those words formed in Harry's thoughts are so corny that he scoffs. _Keep dreaming_. The easiest thing everyone says to everyone. The easiest thing someone on the telly, on the radio, on the stacks of self-help books can say to everyone else without a care. Only, it's a matter of life and death now. For Malfoy.

If he can't be a good dream, at least he won't be a nightmare. He just needs to hold out until the poison runs its course.

"This isn't actually my scene," Harry says in a careful tone as neutrally as he can. Remember. The worst moments of his life. How does one tread when words can literally kill? Harry feels like he's back on the field, swirling through adrenaline and reflex, choosing the best spell to incapacitate his opponents without killing them. Harry looks at his own hands, still holding Malfoy's small and cold hands in them. Malfoy's nails are chipped and spotted white. 

Malfoy utters a soft _oh_ , and pulls his hands back. "Well, it's your loss."

Harry turns to finally face Malfoy.

A pair of surprised silver eyes are on him.

At first he thinks Malfoy is going to flush in anger, call him names maybe, curse him as badly as words can go. After all, the man Malfoy has just seduced turned out to be Harry Potter. The Malfoy he remembers has never done well with embarrassment. The Malfoy he knows, would lash out at the slightest take on his pride, quills erect like a hunted porcupine.

So when Malfoy's surprised face smiles warmly at him, Harry isn't sure how to react because this is a version he doesn't know.

"Sure, I said anything, didn't I," a sunny grin curls on Malfoy's lips, "I'm pretty tough, if you're that way inclined. Can't say I've tried whips before, though, not really into all that SM stuff."

Harry grabs Malfoy's shoulders and shakes them as Malfoy's eyelids close sleepily. "Snap out of it. Come on. You're dreaming. Come on."

Malfoy's replies aren't for him. They are answers given to shadows, his past clients perhaps, dotted with specks of conceivable truths and echoes of sinking memories. Small hands and bony fingers, not unlike chicken feet, claw onto Harry's arms, digging desperately for life. "You gave me your word," Malfoy rambles. "You gave me your word. You said you'll pay. Give me the money, I'll need it for the wounds."

The words hover around Harry's ears briefly before drenching him in horror.

"Hurts," Malfoy mumbles. "Hurts."

Another babble, something Harry doesn't quite follow, "Gotta feed my ants."

And yet another, more lucid and considerably brighter, "Thanks for the omelet. It was delicious. Don't forget to pop in my street if you wanna get some," a wink.

And then, more from their shared past, those words Harry'd never forget, because every minute of that night on the Astronomy Tower is still etched burning in Harry's heart.

"No, you can't," Malfoy mumbles, staring at someone invisible behind Harry, holding up his arm at them as if he had a wand. "Nobody can. He told me to do it or he'll kill me. I've got no choice." **

Pity swells in Harry's throat and colours his voice red into an angry growl. He's mad at Malfoy for diving headlong into hells. He's mad at himself for still feeling Malfoy had made those choices. He's furious at those johns who got to Malfoy, those who consume living flesh as they would chew a savoury rasher of bacon. He's even angrier at Malfoy for exposing himself like that. He's frustrated that even after all these years, he and Malfoy are still bound in that nightmare of the Astronomy Tower. He thought he was over it. He had met Dumbledore and Snape in the Beyond. He had made his peace. He has a family and a happy, yes, he's sure, or is he?--happy life. He's thirty now. 

Harry slaps Malfoy's back a couple of times, shakes him more, and ushers him impatiently to a nearby couch after he's done waiting for the response that never comes from Malfoy. After he seats Malfoy he kneels in front of him, peering into his sleepy eyes. Malfoy is still whispering. Sometimes words shudder back into him, sometimes surging out uncontrollably, sighing his nightmare known to the world outside him, the world that is a hospital ward with no one else than Harry.

Think. Don't startle him. Think of a way to reach. Before he Rests in Peace and he fails.

Sickles, galleons.

Everything Malfoy's said so far seems to be grounded in coins. Harry checks his denims and finds some galleons. He jingles them to Malfoy, hoping that he'd get something out of him--a focusing of the eyes, a shift in posture--any small sign of recognition from the half awake, half asleep man seated before him. Malfoy has his hands crossed on his lap, palms facing up. He looks like a puppet strung immobile in display, waiting for the token coin that would animate him alive and dancing.

Harry leaves some golden galleons on Malfoy's palm, and wraps his hand over it. Think. Of a way to reach. To fit into the dream.

"I'd like to buy your... time," says Harry rather pathetically, "Will this be enough?" He knows ways to make it less pathetic. He's arrested illegal purchasers undercover before. An obscene movement of the tongue, a wiggle of the eyebrow, would be enough to suggest. But just now he's not so sure Malfoy'd understand suggestion.

Harry lets out a breath he doesn't realise he's been holding when he feels Malfoy's fingers twitching in his grip. "Malfoy?"

"Why do you know my name," says Malfoy. He must have mistaken Harry's widening eyes as a look of fury, because he hastily adds, "I-- I didn't kill anyone."

Harry is more than frustrated, but he stops himself and answers kindly, "I know. Look at me."

Malfoy does as he is told, but doesn't recognise him immediately. "It's a lot of money," says Malfoy, "Enough to last you several nights. Unless you want something different."

Harry notices he flinches a bit at different.

"No, no," replies Harry. "I just want us to talk. Nothing more."

Harry doesn't let Malfoy pull his hand out of his grip. At Harry's fastening clutch, Malfoy's voice rises high. "Who are you. Are you an Auror? What's an Auror doing in Knockturn Alley? You can't lock me up for prostitution. The laws are clear. Only punters are arrested."

Harry figures out Malfoy's not in a hospital room. To him, this room must look like either a dirty back alley in Knockturn or somewhere he usually sells his services. Harry makes a mental note not to break that fantasy.

"Merlin," says Harry with an exasperated laugh. "I'm not an-- no longer an Auror. I don't intend to harm you in any way. Look at me. Slowly, yes, relax..."

Malfoy squints at Harry as if he were looking directly into the tip of a wand on Lumos, like someone who's just risen from a deep sleep in a brightly lit room. Then, much to Harry's shock, he presses a kiss on his lips.

Harry roughly shoves Malfoy. When Malfoy hits the back of his seat hard, Harry realises his mistake, only too thankful that the smaller man has been sitting in a cushiony couch and not a chair.

"Shit," Harry snarls, mostly at himself. Malfoy seems dazed, but as soon as he recovers, he babbles words after words of apology. 

Malfoy's pale complexion turns even paler as he blanches. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-- You told me to look at you like-- like that, I thought you wanted a kiss, that's what they usually mean, I-- I'll make up for it however you want." Malfoy clenches the coins in his hand so firmly that the tips of his fingers redden in his fist.

For a moment Harry watches Malfoy in amazement. This is poles apart from the Malfoy in the park. The snark is all gone, replaced by a defencelessness that makes Harry uncomfortable. And Harry identifies the source of his discomfort: it is the feeling of lording above a person he's known for all his years as an independent equal. It is the unsettling irony felt in the abject spectacle of a familiar face. But above all it is the confusion at having too much power over life too bleak. Harry knows he can say anything to Malfoy without being held responsible. He knows he can make Malfoy dance and perhaps even crawl on the floor like an animal, because the few galleons clutched desperately in the prostitute's hands had more value for Malfoy than himself. He knows Malfoy would do anything to keep those coins. But what Harry doesn't know, or rather, can't know, is the effect of his choices dealing with Malfoy. How does he pull someone half a sleep away from death?

Harry decides then that he's perhaps already pushed too much, in and out of the word's literal sense.

"Keep it," Harry says. "I won't take the money back. It's yours."

Malfoy's shoulders slacken, and a galleon falls from his fist. Harry stops the roll with a knee. Its adventure cut short, the jolly little coin, price of pleasant things and security, price of ice-cream and pillows and poisons, finds itself on Malfoy's sweaty palm. Harry helped it back there.

"I just want to talk to you. I promise."

Look, there he stands on the precipice. Approach. Slowly. Softly. Do not shake the ground. Beckon. Reach. _Wait_ , Call, _wait_. Don't rush. Don't push. 

He brings Malfoy's fingers to his forehead. He uses them to brush his fringe back. He guides them to his scar, stretched thin with time but still very much there.

"Feel that?" Harry releases Malfoy's hand. Cold fingers flutter hesistantly on his forehead, afraid to touch. Harry stays very still. Wait. Don't rush, don't push.

Malfoy's fingers trace the line of his lightning scar. The touch is so careful that to an unknowing eye, it would resemble a caress.

"Can you tell me what you feel there?"

"...it's a scar," says Malfoy. "Z...?"

"Or 'N'. That's the wand movement of the Killing Curse. I got it from Voldemort."

Malfoy's eyes refocus and recognition returns to his expression. "...it's a lightning bolt," he says. Then he croaks, with evident panic, knowing he had sold himself to "Potter...!"

==========

Draco's thin body strains against Potter's, arching and bowing like a bow. He grunts with effort, trying to get the huge oaf off him. The moment he learned it's Potter breathing two elbows over him, he drew his hand back, because he had to, he just had to throw the money back on Potter's smug face and buy his lost pride back. But Potter's hand shot out faster than he could ever follow and pinned him into the couch. His fist eases open and coins fall from his hand. His chest bubbles something white-hot and pushes forth a mournful howl, grieving the loss of the dignity he didn't know he still retained. Of course it's Potter. Potter the Mirror, always forcing Draco to watch himself at his worst. He'd thought he could stop watching mirrors. He turned the switch down. His Mirror said goodbye. And Potter just had to come crashing on his path again, replacing the Mirror gone.

Draco tangles his hands in Potter's shirt and tries to push him one last time in vain, before sinking back into the couch from exertion. The prickle in his eyes unlocks the reserve of resentful tears to flow freely. His vision is blurring from the waterworks and it's another embarrassment. He wants to wipe the tear tracks off his face but Potter doesn't let him move. He wants to cover his face in his arms but they are held under Potter's sickeningly strong hands. He feels cut open under Potter's gaze, it's a wonder his guts aren't spilling out.

"Don't look," it's the first thing Draco demands, injecting his shaking voice with a sharpness that he can't seem to gather. He's too tired and numb. But then he must have got it through Potter's scarred head because Potter nods, closing his eyes.

His hands still pinned, Draco wipes his face carelessly on the back of the couch. His salty cheek stings a little from the friction and a string of snot follows the turn of his head.

"Don't look," he says once again, in case Potter sees the mess he's made. He covers the wet splotch on the couch by sitting straighter. He sniffs to stifle his cries and drain his snot back to where it belongs.

When Potter senses his breaths calming, he asks, "All done?"

Draco doesn't reply. He hates Potter. In his mind he screams, _fuck you, Potter!_

"Can I open my eyes?"

This time Draco closes his eyes because he doesn't want to talk to Potter and doesn't want to see Potter's infuriatingly healthy face. Looks well-groomed and cared for. And handsome. Because Draco knows, beautiful and good things do not last. They are fragile. They crack at the slightest mistake and need careful maintenance. Once, Draco was handsome. There was a time when he was. Now, he isn't. Because he did not take care of himself. Because he made a lot of mistakes that cracked his life. A handsome face means Potter has the resources to take care of himself. Unlike Draco. It's not fair.

"Draco," Potter says. Are they on first-name basis even? Since when have Potter started calling him Draco? Of course Potter doesn't know what a healthy distance is. He's been shit at respecting people's personal space. He wants to yell at Potter, it's Malfoy, not Draco. He makes his displeasure known by burying his head in his arms that Potter freed just now.

"Draco, I'm going to look now." Draco can't pinpoint when Potter's opened his eyes exactly, but he feels the cold touch of metal on his hand getting heavier. It's Potter, returning the coins to him.

"What do you want from me with this," retorts Draco, weighing the galleons in his hand.

"The right question is," says Potter, "what do _you_ want from me."

"Are you patronising me? I don't need your pity. You're the one who's cruising in Knockturn Alley to buy some loose hole you can--"

All of a sudden, the room spins for Draco, objects breaking into shards of rainbow and fading in and out, like kaleidoscope. They're sitting in a dingy, paid-by-the-hour room in Knockturn, he's certain of it, but then a hospital bed pops out of nowhere. Are those flower curtains? No, the flowers are soon gone and the curtains are once again dirty green. He smells medicinal herbs. Or perhaps not. These pub backdoors smell like sewers and wet laundries. Or perhaps someone's smoking a Puffapod joint. All the swirling colours and smells make Draco dizzy, and his insides clench like he's about to barf.

"I don't feel so good," says Draco. "I'm gonna be sick. I need the toilet."

No sooner had he spoken the word 'toilet' than he threw up foul-smelling slime all over Potter. His throat burns with bile and acid. "Oh no, you--" He doesn't get to finish the sentence because he sicks up again. And his head's hurting like hell, throbbing with each wave of nausea. He wanted to say, you can't see me like this.

"Don't mind me," Potter says, "This isn't real. It's all right, I'll help you."

This isn't real. When Draco hears it, the kaleidoscopic vision becomes wilder, blinking and flashing more colours. He blindly reaches out for something to hold, and shakes in dismay when it's Potter he finds. He doesn't want to touch Potter with his puke-stained hands, it's disgusting, and he doesn't want to look and smell disgusting, Salazar no.

Potter's warm hands wrap around his own, slime and smell and snot and saliva. "No," says Draco, "No, please..."

"You should lie down," Potter says in that imperviously kind voice. Like Draco's some charity case. "You can't walk, so I'm going to help you. Listen, I'm gonna put an arm under your knees, not to hurt you, but to carry you."

Potter doesn't wait for an answer and hoists Draco up in his arms. It only takes several long steps for him to reach the bed. It's weird, the room's a Knockturn motel, but the bed's a St. Mungo's bed in Draco's vision. When he's laid on crisp clean sheets, Draco finds out the grime and smell are all gone.

==========

"See? I told you this isn't real," Harry tells him. What he doesn't tell Draco, is that he cast three wandless spells in quick succession, a Scourgify, a Drying Charm, and a Smell-Away. Draco hasn't seen him for twelve years so he wouldn't know Harry's improved magic, and in his disoriented state, he wouldn't be able to tell.

Draco seems better. Harry makes sure he lies down on the side in case he starts puking again.

"What isn't real?" asks Draco.

" _This_ isn't real," Harry replies, and jumps to the bed. He snuggles to Draco despite his own reluctance. If he's going to persuade someone's dreaming, might as well act like it.

"I can't move," Draco says. "Am I dreaming? This doesn't feel much like a dream, it's too real--"

Finally! Harry whoops in his mind. A silent Confundus and a partial Body-Bind did the trick.

"I think so," says Harry. "This is your world." Harry's glad Luna's spell is still doing its job in Draco's head.

Draco's forehead is lined with nausea and fatigue still, but his dimples betray the small amusement Harry gave him.

"Dream Potter, bark!" Draco commands suddenly, coughing a bit.

"What are you even on about, Draco," Harry grumbles, but does it anyway. " _Woof_."

"You're not supposed to say it. You're supposed to sound like a dog, do it again."

If Draco weren't dying, Harry would have knocked some sense into him. He swears inwardly but does a poor imitation of a "woof!"

"So this _is_ a dream," Draco says. "That's why you've been calling me Draco. Ugh, I still feel a little sick."

Aware that he's passed the first test, Harry smiles lightly. "Maybe it's a sick dream. A sick and lucid dream."

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sentence marked with double stars (**) is quoted from Chapter 27 of J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, where Malfoy has Dumbledore cornered and Harry is watching from under his Invisibility Cloak.


	6. Chapter 6

"You know what they say about dreams?" asks Draco, his face half-covered under a blanket while Harry's lying on his back next to him, staring at the ceiling.

"What," replies Harry, taking his specs off and massaging the bridge of his nose. After six hours tending to Draco, he is burnt-out. It's taxing because he has to think, consciously think about each and every word he is going to say to this glass doll of a man. He can't rest at ease even when they aren't talking, because Draco gets sleepy if the silence lasts too long. Sometimes Harry lets Draco close his eyes, but no more than a few minutes at a time; never enough to let him fall asleep completely. The burdening knowledge that he's Draco's anchor in the waking world--and life--steals his appetite, but from his own sour breath and dry mouth Harry realises he's not had a single glass of water for the last six hours.

Draco peeks from the light-blue hospital blanket. "People in your dreams are basically extensions of yourself. Excepting magical dreams."

"I didn't know you liked Divination," says Harry. "You didn't look the sort to panic over dreams."

Draco sneers. "This coming from the bloke who'd faint at the sight of Dementors and cry over Dark Lord nightmares."

"Trust me, if Voldie visited you in your dreams, you'd squeak like a ferret in a Hippogriff trough," Harry growls pointedly. "And it's all in the past."

"In the past I _lived_ with him, remember? Housemates with dear Tom Riddle. I was naive back then, I thought those days would be the worst time in my life and everything else would pale in comparison. I realised too late, one simply doesn't fall enough. There's always a new low. Pull the rug from under your feet and each time, you find the abyss gaping at you. Well, not you--me. Life doesn't seem to lay out foot traps for you, Potter."

Harry doesn't know how to reply, so he stands to get a bottle of water. He drains a glass and pours another for Draco. When Draco merely stares at his outstretched hand, Harry raises an eyebrow and raises the glass again. Draco rises slowly, supporting his back against the headboard. He takes a small sip and puts the glass down on the bedside drawer.

"If someone told me that Our Sainted Saviour would fetch me water like some errand boy, I'd have dismissed it as the greatest horseshit story ever told. But I guess everything's possible in a dream."

"You gotta be the most self-conscious dreamer ever," Harry comments absently, sitting on the bed.

"Did you listen to a word I said? You're me here. Yet again do I conjure your image in my dream," Draco says, hiding under the blanket once more. "Although... you feel so _real,_ like you're actually here... doesn't exactly feel like a dream, the water, your reaction... Something tells me this is a dream, something makes me believe, I know I'm sleeping now, but... you, you aren't like the other Potters I've dreamt so far. This isn't a magical dream, is it?"

Harry lurches forward in alarm, but quickly leans back. Draco shouldn't suspect anything. "Who knows," he says, "We're all in your head."

"Hmm," Draco muses, "I don't know why, but somehow you're more Potter than all those Potters."

Harry knows he's treading on thin ice, but he can't resist the intrigue poking at his tongue and finally blurts out, "You dreamed of me before?"

Draco chuckles at Harry's words. "Oh, Potter," he says, "You make it sound so cheesy. Yes, I have, not once or twice. Can't really say how many times. We don't usually talk though, there's just this vague sense of you. You're never this real."

God, Malfoy is tenacious. And Harry has to divert him from the idea of what's real and what's not. That means he shouldn't make Malfoy think. And the best way to curb thoughts is the use of body.

"I'm cold," Harry says out of the blue. He doesn't have a plan, but if he's a dream, he shouldn't be all too predictable. Or reasonable. He should be randomness itself. "I'm cold," he says again. He jumps up from the bed again and casts a wandless _Tarantallegra_ on his legs. "I'm cold, so I'm gonna dance and heat up."

Draco watches as Harry makes a fool of himself with his feet tap dancing. A violent blush colours Harry's cheeks, but Draco shouldn't be aware of it in the dimly-lit room. When Harry's legs somersault in the air, Draco smiles in genuine amusement. The smile hits Harry like a hammer on the back of his head. A _Finite_ stops Harry's dance, and he stands there amazed.

"A dancing Potter," drawls Draco. "Well, that's new. You suck at dance, I remember..."

"Stop talking and come here," Harry says.

"What?"

"Let's dance. It's cold."

"Is it cold?" Draco cocks his head. He appears confused, and an abrupt dazed look glazes his eyes. "Can't really tell..."

"Stop thinking. It _is_ cold, I'm cold. Come here," Harry says loudly. And then he adds, " _Brrr._ It's cold," chattering his teeth rather exaggeratedly. Sensing the hesitation in Draco, Harry says, "I bought your time, you agreed, yeah? A dance isn't too much to ask, I'd say."

"Huh," Draco's voice is tinted with confusion. "No, not too much..."

"Come on," Harry whispers carefully, noticing Draco's slurred speech beginning to lose its previous eloquence. Draco is getting sleepy. The poison inside Draco must have perceived Harry's intention to distract him, so Harry knows he's on the right track. "It's just a dance. Nothing more."

Draco lowers his thin legs to the floor. Harry finds a pair of slippers and sets them next to Draco's bare feet. Draco is a little disoriented when he stands, so Harry supports him in his arms. When he looks downward at Draco's shorter figure he sees scars criss-crossing his neck through the opening of his hospital gown, extending below to his back. He recalls Draco's sleep-talk about whips and barely manages to restrain his bubbling anger.

They're standing not far from the bed. The window is curtained, but Harry imagines the night sky behind it. The first tune that comes to his mind is _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,_ most likely thanks to Albus's favourite Muggle toy car ( _What's the point when we can just get him a proper magical toy,_ said Ron when they were still friends. _The point is he's half-blood and now is the crucial time to get kids used to Muggle culture, Ronald,_ said Hermione. The toy car sang _twinkle twinkle little star_ when she pressed a star-shaped button under it, pursing her lips).

The tune plays in his mind as he dances with Draco. It's not much of a dance, to be precise. He has an arm around Draco and just sways awkwardly to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star that only he can hear. Draco looks puzzled, but tries to match Harry's steps. That, or he tries not to step on Harry's feet.

The thought of Ron stings. Harry had watched a trashy high-teen flick on the telly one day without a particular interest and a girl in it said, _besties are lovers minus sex._ He had scoffed at that, but that line keeps returning to him. He sees some truth in it. Sure, Ron's place in his heart is no longer empty. Harry had poured concrete into the Ron-sized puncture and cemented it over into a smooth surface of monochrome nonchalance. It doesn't, no, shouldn't become an adult wizard to sulk over a lost friendship, but every now and then he feels the cement perforating. It used to spark that endless craving for the burn of firewhisky after dinner, but time petrifies everything and even that effect had dulled into an occasional indulgence. Mostly because he has children to care for. Things are so different when you form your own family, those outside the circle seem to just... fade away.

But the sight of Draco Malfoy, newly in Harry's precocious mid-life crisis, paints the grey memories with such vivid colours that the collateral pain writhes alive as well, and it makes Harry so aware, so aware of the blood in his pulsing veins flaring--memories of Hogwarts, memories of his youth, memories of his parents and Dumbledore and Sirius and Remus and Tonks and Snape and Dobby and Fred, memories of Ron who's not only a friend but a brother and comrade and _lover minus sex,_ memories of Ginny, memories of James and Albus--and he feels, paradoxically, alive, perhaps not so paradoxical because to live is to suffer and this pain in his veins roars attesting to the fact that he is alive.

And if to live is to suffer, who better to understand than Malfoy the ferret, the Death Eater, the prostitute, the suicide, stuck in the limbo between dream and reality in a bid to end all pain?

When Malfoy looks up at him, his scarred white neck bending back to meet Harry's height, Harry realises why Malfoy's smile had struck him like a lightning. Draco's two grey eyes are not the grey of Harry's cemented heart. They are silent pools that hold secrets too great to submerge, suffering that brims over with life. And Harry drowns in them, he now knows he will never forget those eyes. Harry drowns, deeper, closer, closer to the bottom of it all, deep and close enough to find his lips on Draco's.

==========

It's not romantic in the classic sense. There is no passion, no arousal. Harry still feels incomplete. There are no small fireworks bursting around him, and there is no satisfaction of some existential thirst that poets and singers eternalise in their lyrics. Of course it's not meant to do that, Harry knows. It's only a kiss, no tongues involved, just lips brushing with lips.

But there is acceptance. A unique kind of acceptance that Harry knows he won't find elsewhere. The kind given only by an adversary that finds one at the end of the road. The kiss doesn't last long. Their lips part as quickly as they touched.

There is warmth. Literally. Draco's hands are cold, but above the arms he's warm like a rabbit's belly. When Harry surrounds Draco with his own body heat, it's not simply because he wants to warm Draco more. it's because he wants to get the warmth, the acceptance, everything bundled up in his embrace.

Draco squirms like a small rabbit. Harry wonders why he's reminded of a rabbit and not a ferret. Perhaps because he hasn't had many chances to hold a ferret. He presses Draco's head to his shoulders and reaches down to kiss his fluffy silver head that once had annoyed him to no end. He's sure in the past he's drilled more than a dozen punches into Draco's head with everything he's got. Only, now, Harry's gentle to him with everything he's got. The pastHarry Potter would never have known he'd hold and pet Malfoy's tiny head like it's cotton cloud and clear crystal.

Draco squirms a bit harder and Harry loosens his hold. Draco doesn't tear himself away, however. Instead, he locks his arms around Harry's neck and whispers to his ear dreamily,

_You look like you could use some encouragement there, handsome. I could brighten your day in a blink._

Whoever made this poison, Harry thinks, must have been a sicko to rival Voldemort. The poison is insidious, malicious. Digs up the ugliest moments of one's life and exhibits it for nothing but death under a smile, as if it has a mind of its own. 

As if it has a mind of its own--

And because it's so malicious, so... intelligent, Harry knows what he has to do.

What Luna said before clicks like a done puzzle. _The poison will make him re-experience the worst moments of his life._

Harry clears his neck. His throat constricts to swallow his words back because he's not even sure if this will work. But if the poison's game is about warping words and bringing back nightmares, this should be it.

"Hey," Harry calls, looking him straight in the eyes. "Do you know who I am?"

 _Of course I do,_ he replies, a coy smile ghosting on his lips. _Right now you're the man of my dreams._

Harry rolls his tongue inside his mouth to moisten his drying gums. "And right now you're not Draco Malfoy, are you. You're a poisoned and twisted part of him, not wholly him, you're the poison..."

Draco's face contorts into a look of crazed hatred, and Harry shudders. It's one of those rare expressions he sees on faces like that of Bellatrix. All lacerating blades and no shields to protect oneself.

_Is the part not the whole? I am Draco Malfoy, I am a Death Eater, I am a dirty whore with a dirty body living a dirty life --_

"That must be what he's been saying to himself all this time. You can only express yourself by repeating his worst memories. You bend his reality into a nightmare, make him shut it down, and kill him when he escapes into sleep."

_I am a Death Eater, I am a dirty whore with a dirty body living a dirty life --_

"I don't think you're a Death Eater," Harry says. "It takes more than a tattoo to be a Death Eater."

Draco pounces on Harry. He leaves a long scratch on Harry's face. Harry swears in pain and grabs Draco's arms, pinning him down.

"I don't think you're dirty," Harry says loudly, "Luna cleaned and disinfected you. My sons shared an ice cream with you, and they loved it. They wouldn't have approached you if they thought you were dirty or dangerous. And I--" Harry clears his throat again, "I think it's admirable, I know I wouldn't survive what you went through, but you did. You didn't let down those people, people who put their lives on line for you, people like Dumbledore and your mother... I pulled you out of the Fiendfyre."

_Everyday is a nightmare! Every hour, minute, second, every moment I look into the Mirror--_

"Fuck everyday, how about right now!" Harry roars, "Now! Is it a nightmare now? Am I a nightmare now?"

A spray of black blood bursts from Draco's nose. The white of his eyes blackens too, the capillaries rupturing. He convulses violently. Purple black bruises appear on his porcelain-white skin. Then, all convulsions stop. For a split second Harry's heart drops, but he soon lets out a shaky breath as a mocking grin curls on Draco's lips.

_You thought I was dirty. You thought I poisoned your kids. You took my peace from me. In that park, Harry Potter thought Draco Malfoy little better than crup shit._

Harry is caught off-guard. Again, he doesn't know how to reply, but he has to give an answer. Words for a life. Words that will not kill. Words that state the fact only, words that do not twist and turn.

"We're not in that park," Harry answers. He doesn't sound confident at all. He sounds timid to himself. He sounds unsure. "All I can tell you is... you make me feel alive. And I want to feel alive tomorrow."

Draco's eyes roll back and he falls unconscious. His eyes, black with blood, are half-open. When Harry puts a finger under his nose, he doesn't feel a breath.

Harry rips Draco's hospital gown and puts a trembling hand on his chest. There is nothing.

The rim of his eyes redden. Harry leans down and brings his ear to Draco's chest.

There is a _thud._ And another. And another.

A shining silvery stag, huge enough for its sides to wisp through the walls, bursts out of Private Ward 318.

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's the epilogue.  
> I was determined not to stretch this out.


	7. Epilogue

"Well done, Harry," Luna says, cleaning the crusty blood on Draco with a flourish of the wand. "No one could've seen through it better. I knew you were it since I first saw you two in school." She waves her wand and transparent light waves appear above Draco, detailing his vitals. "There you go. I believe the worst has passed. Hurray."

"What about these bruises," Harry demands, lifting the hem of Draco's gown. "They're all over his body. Do something."

Luna smiles. "They'll fade in time. His body was expelling the poison's magic. He lost quite a lot of blood in the process, but we'll administer Blood-Replenishing Potion every hour. And he'll retain his sight too, in case you're wondering."

Luna pauses when Draco emits a painful moan in his sleep. Harry quickly rushes to his side and brushes his hair back, feeling his forehead.

"He has a fever," says Harry.

"Yes, he's been through a lot these past few days, and I'd say he wasn't exactly the picture of health before either, so it's to be expected. Suicidal idea is really just one of his problems. He's malnourished, among others..."

"Among others?"

"I shouldn't be telling you more than that, Harry, for reasons of confidentiality. I'm a Healer."

"For Merlin's sake, cut me some slack. I need to know."

Luna pulls a strand of stray hair that has been bothering her eyes. "Oh. Why do you need to know? It's Draco's privacy."

"I was the one who found him and agreed to be the guinea pig you wanted. I've done my part. I have the right."

"No, I'm sorry, but you don't, and that still doesn't explain it," Luna says, her eyes wide and innocent. Harry feels like he's under a magnifying glass before Luna's gaze. "That isn't a valid reason for you to pry. You got other excuses?"

"Well," Harry begins hotly, "I'm taking him home, is what! He can't possibly take care of himself by prost-- I mean, in whatever state he's in alone."

Once again, Luna cocks her head like a puzzled puppy. "Why? I'll pay for Draco's stay here, you don't have to be bothered about it. I feel bad for him too. We were friends once."

Harry crosses his arms. "None of us were _friends_ with Draco Malfoy, to be honest."

Luna shrugs, filling up a glass in the room with Aguamenti. She drinks a mouthful of water and says, "Which brings us back to the question, why do you want to take him if he's not your friend? Speaking of which, you need his consent for that too. And that's _if_ he chooses to go home. I'm recommending another day or two here for him."

"We'll find out what Draco wants when he wakes up," says Harry. "He's not stupid. He must realise he needs someone."

Luna yawns loudly but covers her mouth in haste when she notices Harry's eyes on her. "Oops. Sorry. Long shift and all," she says. Her voice loses its dreamy quality and feels sleepy instead. "By the way. _Draco?_ Not Malfoy? What a drastic overnight change. Way to go."

"Yeah, it's Draco now, I guess. Tends to happen when you read someone's life secret like an open book under your nose. Luna, I'm serious. He's coming with me. I need to know more if I'm to watch him until he recovers. At least a warning of some sort would be nice, don't you think, I have children under my roof."

"I see your point but I'm sure it won't come to that. Draco may be a bit over the top but he's not a bad person. Anyway you didn't answer my question. Why now, Harry? You're certainly willing to take the trouble considering you hadn't seen him for over a decade."

Luna's persistence is grating on his nerves, and Harry can't keep his tone from souring. "Fine, I feel responsible, that enough? I feel bloody responsible after I pulled him out of his death dream. Last time, I pulled him out of a fire. And he up and threw himself right back in for the next twelve years! I didn't do that to see him fuck his life over and literally lick his way around every Nocturn Alley scum! The more I look at him, the worse this _thing_ inside me burns, it's almost choking me. Have you seen his back? Those are fucking keloids on his back."

"Yes, I saw his scars," Luna says, gathering her hands together. "I am happy for your anger. Draco needs someone who'd get angry for him, in his stead. I'm happy he has one. And I'm glad you're the one. Though I don't know what the future holds."

When his temper cools, Harry retreats to the couch and flops down in the ensuing awkward silence. Luna, on the other hand, doesn't seem fazed by his outburst.

"Silencio," she whispers. An invisible curtain of magic descends between Draco and them. "I should have done that earlier. Draco should be aware already, but he's got venereal diseases that have been ravaging his body. Some are recent but some have progressed to damage the organs. If anything, perhaps the one bright side of this whole regrettable situation is that the condition of his health has come to full light. Some of those diseases are fatal if left untreated for too long."

"Then thank God we know," Harry replies quietly. He almost bit his tongue when Luna mentioned the word 'fatal'. "He's gonna be alright, isn't he?"

"Yes, with proper treatment and medication. They pass via exchange of body fluids, so your sons won't catch them. That is, if you decide to take Draco knowing this."

"I know those things spread by sex, we're thirty," Harry says, mildly annoyed. "And it doesn't change a thing. He's still coming with me."

"If he says yes though," Luna pats Harry's shoulder as she walks out of the room. "There's the bell if he wakes, I'll be back here."

==========

Draco wakes from his uncomfortable sleep, still disoriented by the residual effect of the poison's magic. Something round and hairy has been poking his side all along, making noises loud enough to wake even a serpent hibernating underground. He shoves his hand to the side, intent to push the offending intruder away. He realises something's wrong when a handful of thick black lock entangles around his fingers.

Memories return to him one by one, each heating his cheeks more than the last. His theatrics in the park. Accosting Potter shamelessly, wagging his tail like a hungry mongrel. Potter seating him. Potter in his bed, spooning him. The chain of his memories ends with Potter's kiss, soft and light as a feather. It had felt exactly like everything he wanted, protective warmth and proof of strength without the need for display. How fervently has he been hoping for a lifeline, a saviour!

But it's too late. His hope had once burned brightly, the dying blaze of a candle melting into a goo of wax. It's lights off now. 

Still in his thin hospital gown, Draco shivers slightly as he steps on the floor barefoot from the other side of the bed. He's failed at even the simplest task of offing his own fragile life. Shame pinches his heart before coiling in the pit of his stomach. He let people see him at his most vulnerable. He has to get out of here, fast, so that he can be alone where no one can judge him. He can see it unfolding before his eyes as vividly as a minute-old spectacle: the assessing look of the Healer, the repressed sneer of the Mediwitch, the invulnerable _presence_ of Potter--so he tiptoes, trying very hard not to make his departure known to the man whose whole life had been about running away from hound dogs and being a hound dog himself.

Of course, he's not even surprised when he fails to escape. No, he did not truly believe that he could, but there is no harm in trying. There is no solace in trying his hand at something doomed to fail, but there is even less in not trying. Unsurprised when Potter's hand closes around his wrist, solaced by the knowledge that he at least had tried, Draco merely stands to stare at the door as the familiar unstoppable force prevents him from leaving. The world seems divided at the moment in half. One, at his back, radiating light and promise of security; the other, facing him, drafty with a cold gust of scalpel-sharp indifference. The world of dreams and the world awake. Here he stands, on the periphery, ever so half-asleep and every sense half-awake, as the supplicant begging passage from one world into the next.

"Oh, you're up," Potter says, the timbre of his voice nothing like the Potter who'd spoken to him in the park. It's warm with a certain kind of tone that Draco has not heard since his parents passed. The mild tug on his wrist is matched by the unbearable gentleness of Potter's voice. "You're not supposed to move just yet. You should rest."

His throat is too dry, so Draco hacks and coughs a bit before rasping, "I must go now. Can't afford this place, I must--"

The hold on this wrist tightens, and Potter stands without letting him go. "You're exempted, the Healer told me. Stay."

Draco doesn't see how a high-end general hospital admits a street rentboy for free, and he has always been good in one thing, spotting lies. Potter's eyes are too earnest for someone who is stating a blind fact, and Draco decides he is lying. He tells Potter exactly that.

"Liar," Draco says, edging his voice as viciously as he can, "Not five minutes into this talk and you're lying already. Keep your charity."

"Luna's your Healer," replies Harry. "She's taking care of the bills."

"Luna... Lovegood?" Draco's eyes narrow aggressively. "Rounding up the old gang to gawk at the sorry Death Eater, are we, Potter? You'd put me on a pedestal for today's entertainment? This your way of getting back at me?"

Draco tries to shake Potter off but wobbles dangerously as the room spins. The crippling headache makes it impossible for him to keep his eyes open. He braces for the impending impact with the hard floor, but his cheek brushes with something no less solid yet soft at the same time. Draco realises it's Potter, and once again he pulls away. A large hand on the back of his head shoves him right back against Potter's chest. Much to his dismay, Draco finds Potter's other arm around his waist. There is no way out again, but in a different way. There's no way out of the possibility of survival that Draco had already abandoned. Where he once asked for the choice to be saved now he is forcibly saved, and Draco rages against it in silent ferocity, clawing and hitting Potter's chest where his arms are caged.

He would really have preferred a smack on his face, but Potter retaliates by constricting his limbs around him until it gets difficult even to budge. The more he resists, the tighter Potter's arms embrace him, and in a final acknowledgement of yet another defeat, Draco resents himself melting into a puddle of surrender.

"No one's telling you to leave," Potter says, the hold of his arms not loosening. "They'd have to go through me first. _You'd_ have to go through me first. It's time to let go of everything else and be pragmatic. You need someone. Hell, we all do. I want you to stay with me. Stay."

Draco is still tense in Potter's embrace. He knits one word next to the other, the stitches too loose but held together by his will alone. He isn't really in full control of the words that emerge from him. He isn't sure if he understands them himself. His vocal cords unlock the stash of words hidden deep inside, and words seem to jabber their way outside in slow confession. "I never asked for your help," Draco says, "I know your kind. The _good sort_... The sort that sees only the pretty birds chirping in the woods and not the rotting leaves under the roots... I never asked anyone for anything. I've been doing this alone for so long, Salazar forbid I abase myself at your feet, Potter... You're all the same, you people come to me with looks full of pity like you're doing me a great honour and I should be grateful for it, and when you don't get what you want from me quick enough, I suddenly become a hopeless case not worth it, and you will be the same, I know it, you won't be an exception, I shall not allow you to... to torture me with this, as if the world will turn out fine tomorrow morning, as if things will be different tomorrow, because I am certain, Potter, it won't be, oh, God..."

Draco doesn't make sounds when he's weeping, but Harry can tell because the tears pool and seep into his shirt. His collarbone is damp and he wants to say something that could console the broken doll he's holding down to the Earth. Harry wants to reply. In his mind he surveys and skims through the not many self-help books he's read in his leisure, but he doesn't remember the titles and what those writers had said, it all seems too vague and untrue. Then he tries to remember what wiser men had told him in his life, Professor Dumbledore and the Minister and people he believes were, are, smarter than him, but nothing comes to his mind. He is tempted to say that tomorrow will be different, but it seems too irresponsible a sentence to say to someone who's living in the shadow when he has two feet standing in the light, far on the other side. He wants to say that he's not the sort of person Draco thinks, but it will be self-defence and Draco is not really attacking him, it will be uncalled for.

So he says nothing. He can't.

Harry wonders if he had landed his fists on Draco for the same reason long time ago. Because of the truth Draco seems to be so good at fishing, the truth he uses to stab at people's insecurities when he's bent on being the insufferable prat. The talent to nail on things that no one else dares to point out and unfurl it in full display. The ability to shut people up with the dark truth of the world.

No fists this time, and words aren't enough. Harry hugs Draco tighter, until his arms hurt from the strain. Draco mewls a noise of pain and protest but Harry ignores it. He'll just be here for him.

He'll bring Draco home and feed him. He'll get potions from Luna and take Draco to see Healers. The kids might be uneasy but Molly would help. Ginny... maybe. He doesn't know. He doesn't know if this is a good decision to begin with.

He feels one thing with clarity, however. He's never felt younger.

A sense of renewed purpose fills him and he drowns in the feeling like beach sand on high tide.

==========

_Seven years later, September 2017_

_Grimmauld Place_

"Where's your wand?" Draco asks for the fourth time, fussing over Albus's trunks and patting his robe pockets to check. "You ought to keep your wand under your sleeve at all times, it's what marks duelists of supreme pedigree. Now I know kids these days think it's cool to dangle their wands from their belts, but to be honest, it's a silly trend, and it's disrespectful to the wand, and how many times do I have to tell you, you are the heir to three illustrious Wizarding houses--Potters, Malfoys, and, sorry, did I say three? Two, I mean. You do have Weasley blood, yes, but Malfoy name is far better. And it sounds elegant. That berk Weasley may laugh every time but that's because he lacks taste. Now tell me, what's the best House in Hogwarts?"

"Slytherin," replies Albus, looking at his brother James from the corner of his eyes. He's been teasing Albus about Slytherins for a good entire hour. A gold-and-red wand holster swings from James's belt. In it, his wand hisses and emits irritated red sparks at the annoying treatment. Leaning against the wall, James cocks an eyebrow, mouthing _'Gryf-fin-dor'._

"Slytherins suck," James snickers, "You'll be sleeping in the dungeons while we party up in the tower! And you can see the Giant Squid from Slytherin windows..."

Albus shudders violently and yells, "I won't! I won't be in Slytherin!" **

"James, give it a rest!" says Draco, hugging Albus. **

"I only said he _might_ be," says James, grinning at his younger brother. "There's nothing wrong with that. He _might_ be in Slyth--" **

But James doesn't get to finish that when Harry comes downstairs, carrying a snowy white owl's cage and an equally white ferret. The owl hoots regally when it sees James. The ferret squeaks excitedly at Albus and jumps to the boy even before Harry is in reaching distance of his sons.

"I think that ferret is really an Animagus," says Draco. "Ferrets don't jump like that."

"How do you know?" asks Harry, stifling a laugh. "Oh, right, you'd know all about ferret physiology..."

Draco drives a playful punch into Harry's arm. Harry makes an exaggerated display of pain and bursts out laughing.

"It's not an Animagus," Harry says.

"How do you know?" Draco asks absently, directing a fond look at Albus who begins to pet the ferret. The ferret closes its eyes in bliss each time Albus's finger touches its head.

"Because you're standing here," Harry says, and laughs again.

This time, Draco jumps on Harry and begins tickling him. The exchange of tickles then evolves into a full-blown flirtation, ending with a deep kiss. "Harry," an out-of-breath Draco says, "the kids..." Harry stops him with another kiss.

"Dad! Draco! Eww!" James exclaims in disgust, covering his eyes but actually peeking through his fingers. "You guys are just like Teddy and Victoire when they're snogging."

Draco breaks off from Harry. With a devious smirk he says, "And you were standing there, watching them? Ah, so that's where you put your father's Invisibility Cloak to use."

Defeated, James pretends to look for owl treats for Hedwig II.

Harry ends their kiss with a peck on Draco's forehead. When he turns to Albus, his expression is more serious. He beckons him to a spot in the corner of the foyer, while Draco moves on to bother James by checking his luggage and taking out some of the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes toys that Professor McGonagall had banned specifically for the academic year 2017-2018. "Nooo!" yells James in the background, followed by "Oh dang, not that one!", "That was a gift from Uncle George!", and "McGonagall won't know!".

In their quiet corner, Harry crouches down so that Albus’s face is slightly above his own. **

“Albus Severus,” Harry whispers quietly, “you were named for two headmasters of Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin and he was probably the bravest man I ever knew.” **

"But James says the Giant Squid knocks at the dungeon windows--"

"Tell you what, the Giant Squid is harmless. It's been protecting the Hogwarts Lake for hundreds of years, and it likes bread! If you fall into the lake, it will come to your rescue. Your brother just likes to joke around, sometimes."

Albus lowers his head, looking at his toes. "The other day James said Potters and Weasleys are always in Gryffindor. I don't wanna be alone in Slytherin."

When Harry asks, "But didn't you say you wanted to be like Draco?" Albus raises his head back as if he's reminded of something he forgot.

"It doesn't matter in the end, tiger. Draco and I will always love you no matter what House you're Sorted in."

"Mum too?" Albus asks.

With an absolute certainty Harry nods, "Yeah, Mum too."

Outside, Ginny is sitting on the bench, admiring the garden. She stands when the front door opens.

"Finally. I thought you'd take forever," she says, kissing her sons and Shrinking everything. At James's protests, she answers, "I'll Enlarge them back at the station, darling. You're thirteen now, but this still happens every year."

Draco nods curtly. "Ginevra."

Ginny smiles in return, "Draco."

"You're welcome to come in, you know."

"No," replies Ginny, "But thanks for offering each time. You've done a marvelous job with the garden, Draco. I couldn't for my life figure out how to deal with plants when there's a mountain of other chores."

"Your mother Flooed and helped me out, actually. You should write to her more often. She misses you."

"I love Mum, I really do, but she can be a bit pushy sometimes. Philippe didn't like it when she cornered him with the big question last time. I mean, we're not ready to get into all that yet, and she never stops asking about marriage--"

"She's getting old," Draco cuts in. "Give her more attention, it won't take much of your time. You'll regret it later if you don't. Trust me, I know."

Ginny is about to give an acidic retort, but something in Draco's eyes bars her. She hugs Draco goodbye and walks to her two sons who were now trying to drive the garden fairies out of their beeswax house. The fairies buzz and glow angrily and stops only when Ginny twists the two rascals' ears.

Harry watches Ginny and the kids heading out. "It's time," he says, cupping Draco's cheeks. "You sure you're not coming to the station?"

Draco's hands meet Harry's. "They need time with their parents, too."

"You're their parent as much as Ginny and I are," Harry says, emphasis on every word, his eyes brightly green.

"It didn't go so well, remember? The reporters, and the questions-- give me some time, Harry."

Harry growls when Draco mentions the _questions_. Draco's return to the society had caused tabloids to do exclusives on Wizarding prostitution, purple phrases and controversial photos galore, as if rentboys hadn't existed in the Wizarding World for the last thousand years. It started with _Mr Potter, what do you say about Mr Malfoy's illegal purchase of the Dreaming End?,_ moving on to _Mr Potter, is Mr Malfoy, an ex-Death Eater and a Knockturn escort, a responsible parent?,_ before spreading to _Mr Potter, do you endorse Wizarding prostitution?._ It's been six years since Draco had stopped stepping over the gates of Grimmauld Place. It had been difficult to reconcile James after he found out Draco was a sex worker, and it took a miracle to get Ginny and Draco on affable terms.

But Draco needs his own time, like everything else in the world, so Harry gathers him into his arms and breathes his shampoo. "I'll be back before noon," Harry promises, then heads to where Ginny and his sons are waiting.

When Draco is about to lock the gate, he spots a wand holster. James must have dropped it.

He steps outside, without thinking.

He picks it up.

He realises he is outside. For the first time in six years, and this time, his trip outside is not a journey to death.

He gulps deeply, the hubbub of the world outside ringing in his ears. The very buildings seem to move on their own accord. Draco is scared, scared that each and every window hosts a beholder scrutinising him.

Draco finds that the fear begins to lessen when he knows his destination.

Ahead of him, he sees Ginny and her sons walking, Harry following at a distance.

"Harry!" Draco shouts, waving James's wand holster. Harry turns in disbelief, looking around before focusing his gaze back at Draco. _You're outside!_ His eyes seem to say.

The smile on Harry's lips reflects Draco's like a mirror, the moment of their dream in the fully awake world.

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Albus Potter has a pet ferret. It's canon.  
> Grimmauld Place is 20 minutes walk from King's Cross Station.
> 
> Sentences marked with ** (double stars): Quoted from Rowling's Harry Potter series. I added some of my own rewriting.


End file.
